


The Manners of War

by Bosque



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Skyrim Civil War, Tullius is kind of a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosque/pseuds/Bosque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's harder to kill boys and men in battle than is to move red flags and painted wood figurines around on a map. The general and his Legates know this as they make the end to their war. Perhaps that's why they look tired instead of triumphant."  Four years of fighting has finally led Neidene north and brought the wrath of the dragon down upon the bear. She's glad to know that soon she'll be rid of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn

They discuss strategy, formations, and tactics into the dark hours of the morning as the shadows the candlelight throws on the walls of the large tent climb higher and higher. The sounds of the blacksmiths, the alchemists, the merchants, the bards, the innkeepers, the apprentices, the millers, the ship hands, the famers, the fathers, the sons, the men slip in through the flaps of tent's door. Those men are the red flags scattered across the map of Skyrim rolled out onto the table and the painted wood figurines crowding the jagged hills beyond Windhelm. They are the archers, the battle mages, the foot soldiers, the ones they will ask to die in battle tomorrow. And they will die. No matter how many catapults are lined up to break down the walls, how many arrows the quartermasters fletch, how many swords are sharpened against the grindstones, how many prayers are whispered in their bed rolls at night, how many men cheer as the general gives his rousing speech, riding before their ranks in the tense moments before battle, they will die.  
Defeat won't be what kills them. The numbers aren't difficult; the Stormcloaks are so outmatched that victory is a guarantee. But the equation doesn't factor in the desperation of men and women clawing for the remains of their homeland or the outrage that has been burning inside them for thirty years. That is what will kill them, the hope of their brothers and sisters who can no doubt see the threads of smoke from the fires spiraling up towards the sky, if they can't see the fires themselves, and know that the enemy is sleeping barely half a day's march off.  
It's harder to kill boys and men in battle than is to move red flags and painted wood figurines around on a map. The general and his Legates know this as they make the end to their war. Perhaps that's why they look tired instead of triumphant.  
Neidene listens to the voices mingling with stuttering snap of the fires outside. The Dunmer's breath comes in short, white puffs. Her hair is tied back, but a few stray strands fall around her face. Several other Legates whose names she can't recall crowd the tent. General Tullius stands across from them, surveying the map of Skyrim, with Legate Rikke at his right. Where the corners of the map don't reach, there are mugs of mead and stacks of books written by long-dead generals, explaining the manners of war. Around the table, they agree where the catapults should be aimed. They decide what the best formations for the soldiers, the archers, the mages are. They talk about how they'll advance through the city towards the palace. They argue whether or not the gods-forsaken king killer should be allowed to surrender. When General Tullius finally dismisses them, the candles are burnt down to waxen stubs and the day is beginning to quietly steal back the sky.  
"Not you, Legate Arvel," he says when Neidene stands. The others salute the general, murmuring, "Long live the Empire," before ducking outside.  
He turns towards the young auxiliary standing by the door.  
"Have Hretha sharpen my sword," he tells him.  
"Yes, General Tullius," the boy says.  
Neidene watches him. His armor is too big for him, but behind a helmet, he'd look no different than a man who'd lived twice as long as him. She wonders how many songs of the Legion's glory it took to convince him to join.  
"He's not going to surrender, sir," she says, watching a dying candle's flame wink and sway.  
"I know that, Legate." He reaches for one of the mugs left on the table, takes a drink, and grimaces before setting it back down. "But we're not barbarians. We're justice."  
She looks up at him. He's leaning over the map again, studying it. Gaunt shadows dance over both their faces.  
"I left Cyrodiil to escape the ruins of war and I've only built more here."  
"Your people always seem to be running from something, Legate."  
The Dunmer's mouth narrows into a thin, dark line. "Yes, sir."  
"You probably know by now you won't be going home to... Where was it?"  
"Cheydinhal, sir."  
"Well, you probably know you won't be returning to Cheydinhal. We'll need you to help garrison Windhelm after it's taken. I'll assign some men to you. I imagine it won't be as difficult as anything you've already gone through to get here."  
"Yes, sir," she repeats.  
Silence drapes over them for a moment. "Will that be all, sir?"  
He nods. "Dismissed, Legate. Long live the Empire."  
She salutes him, raising her fist over her chest and bowing her head.  
"Long live the Empire," she echoes.  
Then Neidene walks out of the tent and into the cold morning, where the sun is climbing over the jagged mountains and the sky burns red.


	2. Day

General Tullius's sword is in Neidene's hand almost before Ulfric even says the words.  
"Let the Dragonborn do it. It'll make for a better song."  
The clash of steel on steel and the clatter of arrows against stone from the battle to the Palace of the Kings are still singing in Neidene's ears as she stares down the sword at the king killer and the usurper and the man whose people still love him. She hefts the sword awkwardly. The hilt isn't made to fit in her hands and the burden of responsibility that whispers along the edge of the blade nearly doubles its weight.  
The palace is filled with a tomb-like stillness as the Jarl kneels opposite the Dunmer, in sharp contrast to her. Where his skin is pale like snow, hers is dark like ash. His eyes are the color of the rivers that pour over his homeland while her eyes are the color of blood-stained rubies. His hair is a gold like the first rays of sun in the morning; hers is a black made even blacker by soot. He looks up at her. She studies him with no emotion in her eyes in turn. General Tullius's sword rests limply, almost gently, against his neck and Neidene realizes she doesn't want to kill him. Hate had been her strength for four years, had driven her on long marches in boots that were too small, had torn guttural war cries from her throat in the midst of battle, had seen her rise through the ranks of the Imperial Legion. Only now does she realize there's already too much blood painting the streets outside and that she doesn't want to track the red stains in here. But the city had fallen to her and now its Jarl must too. She can only go out to greet the legionnaires waiting on the steps that reached up to the palace with Ulfric's head.  
It's too late to put the sword down.  
Neidene raises it above her head. He will die a hero's death and the people of Skyrim will call him a martyr and sing their children songs about him and his Stormcloaks. She will be left with a hero's life and the people of Skyrim will call her a gray skin bitch and teach their children to curse her and her people.  
It's too late to put the sword down.  
The war and its end are inescapable for both of them. He was the liberator and the tyrant; she was the savior and the puppet. They were two of the same, but there could only be one. Ulfric knows this. When he kneels, looking up at her, it's not a surrender, but a challenge, daring her to finish what she didn't begin and take his crowns, the love of the people and their hate.  
Neidene knows this. When she stands over Ulfric, looking down, it's not a victory, but a defeat and a wish that this was over already.  
It's too late to put the sword down.  
She swings it down in a heavy arc like they trained her to do and his body slumps, still kneeling before her. All she can think of is a line from one of the songs the bards always sang in the inns to the loyal drunkards drowning in their mugs: But this land is ours, and we'll see it wiped clean of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams.  
“It’ll make for a better song,” Neidene murmurs to the still hall. She imagines it will.  
Far away, General Tullius and Rikke's voices pierce the air.  
“…token of appreciation, I want you to keep my sword,” he tells her.  
She readjusts her grip on the bloody sword, which would become the trophy of her guilt. “Yes, General Tullius.”  
“And now, to deliver a speech,” he mutters.  
Then Neidene follows General Tullius and Rikke out of the palace and into the cold day, where the soldiers greet them with a thunderous cheer.


End file.
